


Fade

by EmeraldSoul



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3664533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSoul/pseuds/EmeraldSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short drabble speculating about Agron's change of hairstyle between seasons 1 & 3, when we pick back up with Spartacus and the gang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fade

He felt it before he saw it.

He should have been there, it should be  _him_ bleeding out on the barren sands, not Duro...he was fading, quickly...

Heedless of the pain it would cause, Agron grasped the blade at its point and hilt, gingerly removing it from his life's purpose, edges cutting into his palms barely noticed in the agony of the moment. 

He had no words to say. There was nothing he could say. Nothing he could  _do._ Helpless, watching those deep brown eyes he loved so much loose their spark, like a fire extinguished prematurely in a gust of cruel wind.

Darker they grew, and between ragged breaths, Duro gasped, "I save you this time, brother..."

...and the light receded further from his eyes, a smile gracing his lips that Agron would never lay eyes upon again, his baby brother trying to offer him comfort in his own time of dying...

All light fell from his eyes.

Overcome, unable to think, unable to breathe, unable to move, he used the very essence of his being to usher forth a cry that ripped his already ragged throat, and if prayers were to be fucking answered, ripped apart the cruel gods that would take Duro away.

He laid his brother down, with great reverence, and stood to finish what he started and make the Romans  _pay,_ the pyre of his rage burning his grief to cinders in its wake.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

It had been a week. A week of constant vigilance, fear, and no small amount of bloodshed. 

Agron kept true to his vow with feverish dedication, seeing to it personally that every Roman encountered experienced a faint echo of his anguish; usually resulting in the sum of his opponent's brains on the dusty ground. The task kept his mind and hands well occupied, and the weight of the sword in his hand provided some small balance to the weight of his heart. 

Nights were the worst. He'd prefer to keep fighting, to keep dealing damage so keenly felt, but these times forced him to relive that moment. Again, and again, and again...there was no escape.

He shirked away from sleep, for fear of the nightmares it always resulted in. He rested when his body began to shut down in protest, heedless of the tortured screaming in his heart. He nearly collapsed as they took yet another villa one evening, but thankfully adrenaline played the role of puppeteer to wasted flesh and spirit until the fighting was done.

Spartacus offered sparse words of comfort in the first few days, and again this night. They had taken to the underground network of tunnels seeking refuge, and so far they had escaped Roman notice.

"Know that your loss is keenly felt, brother," the man said, hand on his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. Agron could not stop the venomous glare from piercing the former champion of Capua, nor the reflex that withdrew his shoulder from beneath Spartacus' hand.

"Do not fucking call me that," he hissed. He expected Spartacus to leave, to further conspire about how to gain their next trove of supplies. 

"Apologies...but know that I share the full extent of your suffering, when wife was torn from this world." His leader's eyes took on a haunted, gaunt appearance, and suddenly Agron felt remorse for lashing out at him. It was not his fault. Agron...and Duro...had both chosen to aid Spartacus of their own volition. The blame rested solely on him. Not trusting himself to speak, Agron simply nodded, and only just succeeded in recalling his tears before they fell. He was surprised; he thought they'd run dry long ago. 

It was only 7 days, and yet the time seemed an eternity and a blur all at once.

"Take rest and drink, and see yourself to some food," Spartacus instructed in his hallmark kindly, yet authoritative, tone. He then departed with another touch placed on Agron's shoulder, moving towards Crixus and the other Gauls.

There was a time when Agron would have filled with rage to even lay eyes upon the Gaul, but now he was utterly indifferent. He had stopped caring about most things.

He toyed with a husk of bread, and attempted a nibble, but his throat refused to grant it passage to his stomach. He was about to throw it away, when a woman with a young girl approached.

"Apologies...but...if you're not going to...?" Her eyes were frightened, and desperate, the girl clutching her robe and watching from behind her legs. Wordlessly, he handed the bread over. "Oh, gratitude! May the gods see you to generous reward!" She hurried off to a cluster of other newly-liberated slaves, the child trailing closely behind.

The words stung. There was no reward in the world that would  _ever_ equal his loss. 

After attempt to eat, Agron discovered that he was wildly thirsty. He got up, with great effort, and dragged his heavy limbs over to the drinking water. He found a cup on the ground, and moved to fill it, but stopped.

He had not seen his reflection in a long while. Not since before escaping the ludus. What faced him caused him to lose his grasp on the cup, and it clattered loudly to the stones.

He did not see himself now. He only saw Duro, matted hair wild and in a state of disarray.

Agron recoiled as if stung. Fresh tears formed, and he backed up until he struck the wall. He sunk down, knees wide apart with elbows resting on them, hands moving toward his head. They felt the tangle that was his hair...and suddenly he was holding Duro again, as his life's blood drained into the sand...

Too exhausted to be angry, he shook with silent sobs. He didn't even care that people were probably watching; they could go to Hades for all he cared.

He wept until the tears would no longer fall, and even then remained against the wall for a long while. He could not say how long. 

Finally gathering the strength to get up again, he retrieved the cup, and careful to look away from the basin, filled it with water and quenched his thirst. Sure enough, there were eyes on him. The look he gave the unknown bystanders must have been harrowing, for they turned and left the moment he made eye contact.

Alone, he made his way to where he slept.

He reclined, toying with the knife he kept in his bracer. It always helped to have a back-up plan in case things went wrong.

Memories flashed through his mind. He was now still, and that gave the unwanted thoughts ample time to catch him. 

A bright brown-eyed gaze daring him to cross the small river by their home, taunting him that he was too weak to make it. A dark-haired head, glimpsed from the back as he lay in their shared bed at their childhood home. 

No more.

He got up abruptly, and was rewarded with vertigo for his neglect of his body. And yet there was one part he would tend to.

He kneeled at the precipice of the slough, and gripping the knife in his hand tight, began sawing off the matted twists on his head, watching his reflection in the squalid water as they fell, one by one. 

_Goodbye, my brother...my reason and meaning._  

As the last lock was shorn away, a new appearance greeted him: that of a worn man, skin still stained with the blood of Romans and tanned from long hours in the hot sun, with drawn eyes filled with a soul-consuming sorrow.

He was now a warrior, with no resemblance left to bear of his late brother. No longer was he one half of a pair, tied by blood, love, and loyalty.

He stood alone, and gazed at his reflection not with satisfaction, but with resignation.

He had become death incarnate, with nothing to lose but his agony, released with each stroke of his blade.

**Author's Note:**

> "And love is a word in the sand,  
> That a wave wipes away with her hand  
> And the ocean just don't understand..."  
> ~Some Kind of Kindness, Firewater  
> \---------
> 
>  
> 
> Just a quick angsty drabble between chapters of my other, longer fic...I'm rewatching the series, and I realized just how much Duro's death really shapes who Agron becomes as a character. I wanted to explore that a little, because I'm aaalll about the existential pain!  
> ...maybe I should get that checked out.  
> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
